


Undoing

by foundCarcosa



Category: Fable (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaver gets some of that sweet kingly--<br/>... Look, you know what he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undoing

The moon is full tonight, and that never bodes well.

Mental exhaustion makes Logan careless as he unbuckles the cuirass and lets it drop to the floor of the war room, followed by the weighty gauntlets and thick jacket. His hand sweeps absently over his hair, over his flushed and aching forehead, over his scowling mouth.  
 _Air._ Air would be nice.

The gleaming glass doors thrown open, he steps onto the balcony and breathes in deep, the ties on his linen shirt fluttering in the cool night breeze. Jasper would sweep in silently soon enough, retrieve the scattered pieces of armour, ensure that His Highness didn’t spend too much time in the night air lest he catch cold. There would be speeches again tomorrow; his booming orator’s voice could not falter even once, lest that be a sign that _he_ is faltering.

Albion’s king _could not falter._

The tapping of a cane on lacquered wood overwhelms the chirping of insects and the rustling of the castle flags, and Logan’s heart sinks.

He should have seen Reaver out, and ensured he couldn’t get back in. Not until he was needed again.  
 _As if he weren’t needed now,_ but Logan ignores the secret voice with the adeptness of someone who’d been doing it all his life. 

“You rang?” comes the industrialist’s saccharine, drawling voice, followed by the essence of the man himself — the sickly-sweet scent of all nobles, touched with some indefinable spice, and of course the everpresent miasma of something-not-quite-right that he could never drown out no matter how many oils and salves he used.

“I did not.”  
Logan’s hands clench around the balcony’s railing, clench like all the other muscles that had forgotten how to relax.

“Oh, but of _course_ you did.” And now his voice is intimately close, winding around Logan’s skull and slipping into his brain, unnaturally coy, unnaturally deviant. “You’re practically crying out for me. Look at you.”

Unwillingly, Logan’s eyes slide downward. His knuckles bulge as if they would burst from the confines of skin and muscle, his arms vibrate with tension as did the unseen insides of his thighs, and oh, how he could feel the cords standing out in his neck and the single vein pulsing in his temple like a second heartbeat.

Reaver usually took his time coaxing out the strange bedfellow from under the cloak of the scowling monarch, but before Logan could react to this first bit of coyness, he feels the chilly fingers on his waist, swiftly darting under his shirt. He hisses and wrenches away, hip bones thudding against the railing with the momentum, and Reaver chuckles but doesn't back off.

“Now, now, dear boy — all wound up with nowhere to go, that’s you, and I’ve got _just_ the thing for all that excess energy…”

Even as he spoke his hands were roaming, rings scraping against Logan’s scalp when Reaver grabs a handful of slick black hair, too-long nails digging into his side and holding him fast as Reaver’s hips do their lascivious swivel. Logan shouldn’t have been responding, shouldn’t have been sinking his teeth deep into the side of his tongue to stifle a hiss, _certainly_ shouldn’t have been arching his back just so.

It wasn’t as if they’d never been in this circumstance before. But the castle gardens had never spread out underneath them in quite this manner, nor had the night air been this fresh on their skin.

“People can _see_ us, you lout,” Logan snaps, but Reaver is already slipping serpentine fingers through the opening he’d made by unbuttoning Logan’s trousers, slipping in and finding flesh that thickened and solidified for him more often than the king would ever admit, raking his nails down a linen-covered spine and planting his hand firmly at the middle of Logan’s back, pushing. Pushing him forward, draping him over the railing.

“No one can see you. Do you think I don’t know that the gardens are closed to all except guardsmen at night?” Stroking now, stroking with fingers that know him too well, and yanking the trousers down and away. Gooseflesh raising on exposed flesh, the hand leaving his back and stroking the cleft of his ass, lingering at an entrance that twitches at the touch— _how did he end up here, like this, so quickly?_ “The guardsmen know where to keep their eyes, and if anyone should be skulking around where they shouldn’t be, then perhaps they deserve what they see. And you, oh, _you_ …” The chuckle vibrates through Logan’s body, carried by Reaver’s questing fingers slipping into his entrance in preparation for the cock that would soon follow. “You, my blooming nightshade, you deserve to be _seen.”_

 _If only he wouldn’t speak,_ Logan thinks dimly, a drugging haze settling over him. If only he wouldn’t speak, weaving his spider’s web, injecting his slow-acting venom, then maybe Logan could resist. Then maybe his legs wouldn’t be spread, his body bent over a balcony railing, his cock twitching helplessly in the grasp of long, dexterous fingers.

Maybe…

Reaver’s spit-slick cock is nowhere near as gentle as his fingers, a single nudging and then a surge forward, a cry of surprise and indignation ripped from Logan’s throat before he could bite it back.  
Nothing stirred in the gardens, but Logan wouldn’t have noticed if it had, his eyes at half-mast and his focus elsewhere.

“What sounds you make,” Reaver comments with more than a hint of amusement, drifting his fingers lazily up Logan’s spine to curve around the back of his neck. “Have you others? Let me hear them.”

Reaver plants his feet and thrusts, the coarse serge-like fabric of his open trousers scraping against Logan’s thighs. Grabbing hair in one fist and lily-white flesh in another, he grunts in appreciation when Logan hisses and pushes back, a helpless fury mingling with the undeniable flares of pleasure. The balcony rail quivers but holds fast. A shudder makes its way down Logan’s spine, telling sign of a thawing, of a subconscious surrender.

“Not good enough for His Majesty, hmm?” Reaver thrusts harder, pulling viciously on Logan’s scalp with every forward motion, nails digging livid half-moons into his side. He grunts, and then his jaw unlocks and from an open mouth spills a groan.  
It feels good, like the twitch of Reaver’s cock inside him. He does it again, longer.

“Louder, lad,” and Logan can’t help but obey, the veins standing out in his neck as he arches it, grinding his teeth as he tries to stand his ground and then crying out, a single wanton syllable, louder and louder as his legs tremble and his scalp burns and heat spills forth in waves from the core of him, and still Reaver is thrusting as if he is more machine than man, and maybe it’s okay if he’s seen like this, maybe it’s _more than_ okay, and he shuts his eyes tighter than tight but his orgasm explodes behind his eyelids anyway—

Reaver leaves him shuddering and breathless, slung over the balcony railing, but at least he has the tact to close the glass doors behind him and let down the drapes.

His voice still rings clarion-clear when he addresses Albion the next day, but Reaver smirks as he watches from the wings, because next time, he’ll _break_ that voice clean in half, along with the man who owns it.


End file.
